Chapter Text
Salazar wakes up to his phone buzzing not from his alarm (STRFKR) but from his ringtone (Dikta), which is probably why it works at all - he should probably look into changing his alarm more regularly so he doesn't just outright ignore it. He flails his arm over to the dresser to see who's calling, but they ring off before he can blink the blurriness out of his eyes. A second later it pings with a text alert.
"Too goddamn early," he mutters, flopping his head back on the pillow and taking his phone with him, disconnecting it from the charger. Honestly, that sentiment means nothing - he'd probably still complain about being woken up if he'd just spent three to five months in hibernation. He fumbles with his glasses and squints at the time. 9.37. He can't really bitch at Godric or Helga or whoever, then: it's his own damn fault he can't function at this quite reasonable time in the morning.
can i come over
Sure enough, it's Godric. The guy usually wants to hang out in some form on Sundays; they should probably make it an official thing at this point, do away with formalities and get straight to the vegging out. He's already apparently stopped bothering with qualifiers like 'I'm bored' or 'Helga's being a bitch'.
Salazar types out Sure bring me breakfast though because why not, and throws his duvet off in a miscalculated attempt to force himself to get up. (It doesn't: it just makes him swear profusely and curl up in a ball until an email alert wrenches him from his miserable, freezing trance. (He's very dramatic before 11am.)
He's only just boiling the kettle in his pyjamas when the doorbell goes. He keeps forgetting Godric has a car now like a proper adult and is not afraid to use it to spring up on people. He detours past the hallway mirror to check he doesn't look entirely horrific, and then unlocks the front door.
"'Ello," he says in a surprisingly rough voice - oh right, haven't spoken to anyone in eighteen hours - and ushers Godric inside. "Get in, you bastard, it's cold as tits."
"Cold as tits," Godric repeats sceptically as he obliges.
"It's a phrase," Salazar waves him off. Once he is satisfied that Godric is leaving his shoes in an unproblematic place he heads back to the kitchen. "You want coffee?"
"Obviously."
Godric joins him in the kitchen, now coatless and with his mismatched socks on show for all to see. Well, for Salazar to see. He sits heavily in a chair and plonks the plastic bag he'd been carrying on the table. He'd bought croissants, and not the shitty ones from the Co-op either, and Salazar quickly decides to forgive him for forcing him to be conscious at the weekend. They sit and sip their coffee without saying much, the hum of Radio 6 Music in the background. It's nice to have breakfast with someone: it's not a meal that's generally social, not even when you live with other people.
"You should wear glasses more often," Godric says, taking a bite of croissant like he didn't just make Salazar go violently red. It's not a blush, okay - it's embarrassment: he'd forgotten to switch to contacts before Godric arrived. He fucking hates his glasses.
"So what d'you wanna do today?" he asks to divert Godric's attention from his face. It shouldn't have worked but for some reason it does, and Godric starts examining the bottom of his mug like he's a £1 fortune teller on a pier.
"Well, actually I want to, uh, talk to you about something," he says.
"Ominous," Salazar takes a gulp of rapidly cooling coffee. "Someone's got beans - spill them."
Godric smiles at the quote like he'd expected, but it's distracted, like Salazar's throwing him off. Damn, must be pretty serious. "The thing is." he says, and then nothing.
Salazar's mind races through all the worst things in the world, and in that split second he finds out a lot about himself and his priorities. "Is this a conversation I should be wearing proper clothes for?"
"Nah, I'd prefer it if you - you know," but Salazar really doesn't. Until: "I think I have what you have," Godric says in a tone so even it could only have been practised.
A pause. "The asexuality virus?" Salazar shoots back, already defensive.
Godric swallows and seems to fold in on himself at the venom in Salazar's words. "Depression."
Salazar blinks at him. "How do - are you okay?"
"Uh, define 'okay'."
They look at each other across the tabletop, blobs of jam congealing on their plates. The song on the radio fades into a different one. It's weird in that way things are when they don't change the world.
"How long have you...?" Salazar trails off. It's not that he doesn't believe in his own best friend's ability to differentiate from bad days and the real deal (if anything it's probably the other way around, 'cause he's always been one to suffer in silence) - it's more that he's already thinking of Friday night, and Thursday afternoon, and Monday lunchtime, all the times he's seen Godric and he hadn't noticed.
"New Year, maybe," Godric replies. Fucking hell.
"Shit." Salazar says. Under the table, he presses his toes into the wood floor until they start to hurt.
They go for a walk along the beach.
Godric tells him about it. It's a familiar story. It makes Salazar want to break the anthropomorphic neck of biology for daring to touch someone so full of everything, but he knows that's a stupid way of thinking. Sure, some people are more prone to mental health problems, but that doesn't mean that just because Godric's the best person Salazar knows he's immune to them. One day he should stop deifying his friends, but then that would be the day his own head stopped being a little shit itself.
"I guess you want my opinion on medication," Salazar realises. He is, after all, the resident crazy.
Godric shrugs and kicks a pebble into the receding water. "I know your opinion on medication, Sal. I just wanted to tell you."
Salazar doesn't know what to say to that. Probably 'thank you', but he doesn't think he'd be able to only say that.
It's still freezing, but at least he has real trousers on now, not to mention several scarves. The weather's pretty terrible, just plain grey as far as the eye can see, and he'd put in his contacts after all in case it rained. If it had been a couple of years ago he'd have offered Godric a cigarette to stave off the cold even more, but now he can only offer his good pair of gloves. It's out of character for both of them, to be so quiet - except that's not right, it's just the type of quiet they are that's new. Salazar has no idea if they're making a big deal out of nothing, but he gets that for people like him - like them - there's days when there's nothing to say at all.
Godric stays for most of the day. They make sandwiches from the leftovers in the fridge, and then mill about doing nothing in particular in the afternoon as is custom for Sundays, really. It's almost like being alone, but better in some inexplicable way. Godric reads some Renaut on the sofa while Salazar does odd jobs on his laptop at the dining table.
At just past seven, Godric goes. He stands in the hall for a moment swinging his keyring around his index finger. "Thank you." he says unexpectedly. "For today."
Salazar tucks a wayward bit of fringe behind his ear. "We should, uh, do it again sometime," he replies. "I mean - not the - you know, the - it was nice, I mean -"
"I'd like that," Godric interrupts in an act of mercy; he smiles his normal, dorky smile, and Salazar thinks maybe it isn't so monumental.
"Me too," he says, and then coughs, and then he's being enveloped in strong arms and itchy winter coat. They don't hug much, as close as they are, so it's slightly jarring to suddenly have this armful of friend. Salazar doesn't hesitate though, and in a knee-jerk reaction he hugs Godric back as hard as he think he needs.
"Mhmm, Huff's always saying you give good hugs," Godric mumbles into Salazar's neck. His hot breath makes Salazar's skin prickle.
"You're not so bad yourself," he ends up saying lamely, but Godric laughs so he doesn't beat himself up over it. "Drive safe," he warns as he watches him walk down the path. Godric does a little salute as he unlocks his car. Salazar locks up the front door and switches the heating on. Weird day, he thinks as he sits down on the cushion Godric had been occupying most of the afternoon. Or, well, perhaps not so weird.